Nuit de Noël
by Schauspielerinnen
Summary: On this wintry night she visits him, as she always does. On the night known as the heart of winter he ponders his existence. She takes pleasure in his pain, but he is always naive - and as a result kind. Hiver/Michele. -Sound Horizon 5th Story Roman


**A/N: Something for Christmas. Apparently my brain does not function all too well, I know no French, I have no headcanon for either character here, so this is rather sloppy but I can't improve it.**

**Disclaimer: After thinking through the entire story of Roman, I think I don't want to own Sound Horizon. My head would explode.**

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><p><strong>Nuit de Noël<strong>

The snow swirls and flurries about the château, and the spirit within its walls watches as the flakes dance by, accompanied by an orchestra of winds. Not that he needed the protection of the stone, no. On the contrary, the château needed him. That is, until _she_ saw fit to send him out into the world again, to toy with the balance of life and death.

As though his thoughts summoned her, she comes into existence, an apparition that caresses the gem lounging on the table with her gloved hand before running the same hand down the side of his face, coming to rest on his shoulder. Even though he is colder than the wind-tossed snow outside, he has to suppress a shiver, and his discomfort manifests itself in the subtle set of his jaw.

She laughs in twisted delight at his reaction. "Did you imagine that I would forget to visit you tonight, Hiver?"

He hesitates for a moment before replying quietly. "Non, madame."

She laughs once more, trailing her ghostly fingers down his arm, fingers that he can somehow feel through the sleeve of his thick coat. Hiver resolutely refuses to turn his heterochromatic eyes on the woman now seating herself on the cold stone ledge, and keeps them trained on the snowflakes falling diagonally outside the window instead.

Not that Michele would allow him to ignore her for long. Reaching out once again for his face, she coaxes him into turning in her direction. He reluctantly moves his head to the guidance of her phantom fingers. Disobedience had paid off far too many times – and every single one had been in her favour. Obeying her chafed, but it was far preferable to the alternative, where her amusement made every one of her schemes more painful than they already were.

He allows his eyes to focus on the grey bricks that form the windowsill through her pale shoulder, avoiding her eyes, avoiding that cruel twist of her lips like he always did. It was one of the few freedoms she permitted him, and were she to ever tire of this _handicap_, so to say, he did not particularly want to imagine his existence without it.

She carelessly inspects his carefully blank face before releasing him with a flick; he returns his gaze to the snow outside, and her smile grows wider still. She follows his line of vision into the white blankness, looking over her shoulder, and her eyes brighten in anticipation.

"Would you, perchance, be reminiscing about Noël?" She prods, vicious glee subtly seeping into her voice.

Here Hiver hesitates once more before giving an honest reply. "I do not know, madame."

"Come now, there's no need to be shy about it. It is the nuit de _Noël_, and she _might_ just have been your sister once upon a time, after all." The stories that she had the dolls play out for him over and over, the romans that end with his death again and again – how many of them were true, even she no longer knew. He would not know which of the lives he observed in the red jewel were his, if any of them were at all, and she would not be so generous as to enlighten him.

Hiver's gaze never leaves the snow, but the slight softening of his stiff demeanour tells her that her words have reached a place inside him that might just be inclined to believe her. She reaches over to drape her arms over his shoulders, a mockery of comfort laid bare by the malice in her eyes.

Then she lets slip the crucial words right next to his ear. "As _Monique_ might have been."

His reaction does not disappoint her as she draws back to observe her handiwork. A minuscule slump, a blink of those large eyes that are incapable of concealing the hurt behind them, the way the same eyes are cast downwards as he realises that this was what she was aiming for all along… They make this card her favourite to play. A reminder that he was no one until he found his roman kept this game of hers fresh, as she liked. The cage can get so dull after a few rounds of the usual fare, when Hiver began to learn to predict and anticipate her moves. That was why she desired to break out of the familiar pattern, and why she loved to lavish her attention on him so.

She follows it up with yet another in a move akin to twisting the handle of the knife after stabbing the blade into the target. "You're such a fool, Hiver," she tells him as she makes her way back to the blood-coloured jewel, the hem of her dress trailing on the carpeted floor lazily. "Seeking comfort in those who do not love you – you do make it easy for me." A silent swish of the phantom fabric as she turns to embrace the gem while keeping an eye on Hiver. "You have nothing and no one. Not even those broken dolls of yours, no. You think they love you, but they cannot and never will, even if you try to teach them. You are alone, and always will be."

Even though all she sees is his back, that is enough. Michele knows him well enough to be certain that she has hit right on target, hit him where he is most vulnerable. She knows the thoughts that must be running through his head at the moment, like how she knows everything about him. The corner of her mouth twists upwards in sadistic pleasure. "Except for me. You have only me. You should know that by now."

A twitch, a tremble, and she is done for the moment. She rises and turns her back on him – the rest of the inanimate château presented far more enticing opportunities than the broken spirit in this room for now. Distaste and disdain for the human psyche stirred within her, and not for the first time, she wonders why she even _bothers_ to play with this one.

"Pardon me, madame, it is the nuit de Noël after all. Even if my roman does not coincide with hers, I can still wish the best for a sister who has lost her brother."

She whirls about at this quiet statement. "I beg your pardon, Hiver?" she asks incredulously.

"It is the nuit de Noël, madame. A time for sharing and compassion, I believe. I will still offer my well-wishes, though they may never reach." A pause. "To you as well."

She stalks soundlessly back to the window and the man. If this is his defence it is by far the most pitiful one that she has ever seen, and she _has_ seen many pathetic ones over the decades. However, his mismatched eyes, turned to her of his own volition for once, hold no traces of deceit. Wariness yes, but not the kind of wariness one would expect from cornered prey.

Wariness of rejection. A hopeful kind of wariness that has her instinctively drawing back and raising her own guard. "Just what kind of game are you intending to play, Hiver?"

"None, madame. Not tonight, not even with you." And he looks so surprised at the notion that she believes him.

"A ceasefire for tonight, then?" she concedes. Because once upon a time, a girl in an attic used to draw her father something for every Noël. Once upon a time, a girl hugged the canvas close on the nuit de Noël, wishing for its intended recipient to just come and tell her that it looked "nice" but never having her wish granted. Once upon a time, a girl used to wear a look of hopeful wariness on her face.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who was very much like Hiver Laurant is now.

"Call it what you will, madame. I personally prefer the words 'peace offering'." He is courteous, always courteous, even as he fights to suppress a relieved smile and returns to admiring the snowfall.

She reclaims her seat on the windowsill and glances at the outside world that lies behind her back. The winds had abated sometime while they were poking and prodding at one another, and now snowflakes fall gently from the silent sky.

She does not reply; she has no obligation to and neither will she deign to. Even if it is the nuit de Noël, she is still Michele Malebranche, a woman who proudly derives pleasure from causing others grief.

But because it is the nuit de Noël after all, she can, just for this one night, be gracious and quietly watch the snow fall down to the earth with another.

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><p><strong>AN: Merry Christmas to one and all! Comments much appreciated because I've never written anything like this before and I'd like to know if I'm suffering correctly. Yes. Especially with the French, don't hesitate to tell me how much I messed it up.**

**And someone actually picked the "FINISH WHAT YOU'RE DOING NOW AND WE'LL TALK D:" option on my poll. I'm... a little freaked. And hahaha sorry I'm a procrastinator.**


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